Ice dark (the world is dreaming).

Lie across the taurobolium

at the motherless spring

without feeling, without breath;

pale mulberries infiltrate the wind

in ice dark of obscured dreams

by the sea-green void, vanishing by the surf,

as the fresh dew slumbers in the whiteness of morning

exorcised with twigs of the dying trees.

flicker with the nightly, strange sea,

the augur bleeds madly onto the sand

behind the betrayed fog mire

these helpless longings, starved in the droplets of mist

in the solitude of each shadow that breaks each rock and stone

broken in its place like a fallen leaf lifeless in the stretch of dreaming,

expanded in the tarry blue in ancient loss, what it truly means to grieve,

shivering god-like, shivering emerging from a cocoon;

the robin’s nest is naked, violently absent, as it shutters across the viaducts,

blending with the past—the secrecy having gone, tormenting a breath

in the dark snow, a wound in the interstices, each winter returning

disappearing in another’s cruelty, remembrance; rejecting the kiss upon flesh

the wind retreats upon you, waving a leaf, the dance of a prelude in a whispering fear,

the world dreaming.

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